Pony Express
by PrincessEilonwy
Summary: Two Men: Mablung and Damrod. Two ponies: Bill and Stybba. One mission: to collect twenty-first century fanmail and deliver it to the more popular characters!
1. Annoyed

Disclaimer: Fortunately for these characters, I do not own them—they belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, who is a genius.  They are occasionally borrowed by Princess Eilonwy, who is an idiot.

A/N: First of all, this is not a normal fanmail story, so don't bother including letters in your reviews.  Yes, I do enjoy fanmail very much, but the main problem with the whole idea is that nobody ever gives a thought to the difficulties involved in delivering mail between realities.  I mean, someone has to do it, right?  And knowing the way things work, the people who get stuck with the job are probably some minor characters that would never get fanmail from anyone and so have nothing better to do than run back and forth between universes all day long to deliver approximately 15,738 marriage proposals to assorted Elves, hobbits, Elves, Men, and Elves.  Yes, it is incredibly scary that I'm obsessed enough to even think of a story idea like this, but sadly it's probably been done before.  It would be nice to have an original idea for once…*sigh*  If you know of any other story like this, please tell me.  I will be searching diligently myself in hopes of discovering that I have made up a new story line.

Pony Express

"Well," Damrod sighed wearily, "I guess that's the last load for today."  Gratefully, he heaved the bulging sack of letters into the back of the cart and climbed up on the seat beside Mablung, who was waiting impatiently.  The sky was already darkening as dusk came on, alleviated by the twenty-first century streetlights shining around them.

"Took you long enough," grumbled Mablung, picking up the reins and giving them a peremptory shake.  "Get your rears in gear, you lazy bums," he growled to their two long-suffering ponies Bill and Stybba, who rolled their eyes slightly and got their rears in gear.

Damrod stared bleakly back at the enormous mailbags behind him and wondered, for about the seventy-fifth time that month, just why he had taken this job anyway.  This was a very good question, and Damrod was sorry he had asked it, as it brought back bitter memories he had tried to suppress.  Memories of Faramir calling him aside and saying he had something to tell him...

"I'm awfully sorry about this, Damrod," he had said, laying a hand regretfully on his shoulder.  "But you're just not hot enough to stay here with the rest of us.  I mean, for crying out loud, you and Mablung aren't even in the movie!  So I'm afraid you'll have to go."  Faramir had looked lost for a second, his eyes somewhere far away, then snapped back to the moment.  "Say, I know just the thing!  They have a post open for 21st century fanmail delivery and I bet I could get you guys a route if you want.  Whaddaya say?  It's better than nothing."

And, of course, it was.  After all, the only alternative was to go home in disgrace and spend the rest of his life thinking about that insufferable hobbit Frodo Baggins getting adoring letters from teenage girls begging him to marry them, or at the very least autograph their copies of _The Fellowship of the Ring._  So Damrod had agreed to the job and eventually talked Mablung into it as well.  As far as he knew, the only ones who hadn't given informed consent were the ponies, who didn't get much say in events anyway.

Sighing with slight nostalgia for the bygone days when they hadn't been virtual exiles from Middle-earth, Damrod turned back to face the road, mentally cursing himself for being stupid enough to let Mablung drive again.  Honestly, with the coordination the man had he was a menace to anyone within twenty leagues—especially anyone unlucky enough to be in the same cart.

"Yee-HA!" Mablung yelled, steering the cart off the concrete road and toward a treacherous-looking ditch.  Damrod hung on tight and wished carts had those modern things—what did they call them?  Airbags?  They would certainly come in handy often with his partner at the reins.  Why, oh why, hadn't he insisted on driving this time?

Damrod looked up at what lay ahead, not wanting to be surprised by any sudden bumps caused by potholes, ridges, or small rodents.  What he saw caused his jaw to drop in momentary astonishment before his adrenaline rush kicked in.  "Mablung," he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the rattling of the cart over rough ground, "Mablung, you idiot!  What are you doing?"

Mablung the Evil didn't reply, just grinned and shook the reins to urge the ponies to go faster.  This was no easy task, as Bill and Stybba had done their best to come to a complete stop.  No doubt they had seen the same thing that had Damrod gibbering with terror—the enormous two-story house looming directly ahead.  The enormous two-story house that Mablung was on a collision course with...

"Come on!" Mablung cried in exasperation, shaking the reins harder than ever.  As it turned out, he didn't need to—the ponies had worked up too much momentum to simply stop in their tracks.  Instead, they and the cart skidded forward at a considerable speed, eliciting screams from the two hapless Men stuck in the front seat.

Two yards...one yard...[Goodbye, cruel world,] Damrod thought grimly, wishing he could have had just one more drink before he went.  Then thought became impossible as they made contact.

A/N: Cheerful, ain't it?  Don't worry, everyone will survive more or less unscathed, although some falling out between Mablung and Damrod will be only natural after an episode like this.  Don't you just want to kill Mablung already?  I promise I'll actually get to more of the mail delivery part in the second chapter, which is when it'll hopefully get more interesting.  Yes, I suppose technically Mablung and Damrod were in the movie, but I don't think they were named.  While we're criticizing the scenes with Faramir, let me just say that they absolutely twisted the poor man!  I mean, in the books he was one of the best characters, if not _the_ best one, and then they changed him.  I guess they did it to heighten the dramatic tension—wouldn't do much for the excitement of the movie to have him wish Frodo and Sam good luck and send them on their merry way, would it?  But enough ranting and raving about what they did to Faramir.  I hope I'll be able to update soon, but I'm working on many other stories, a number of which are Lord of the Rings.  Once again, if you know of any other story with this plot, let me know.  Not that it'll make me stop writing (most of my stories have already been written a few times), but I'll be sort of disappointed.  I've decided I really need to post more fanfiction for small categories, since that gives me a much better chance of actually coming up with an original plot.  But enough rambling—please review.  It's always depressing to post a new story and get about two reviews on the first chapter.  Coming Soon: Chapter Two.


	2. Marooned

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Mablung, Damrod, Bill, and Stybba.  I own the fanmail and the remains of the cart.

A/N: Well, here we are in the second chapter!  This is the chapter where you get to find out when our "intrepid" heroes will wake up again, whether Damrod will kill Mablung for getting them into this mess, and just how long the ponies will put up with these idiots before they run off to greener pastures.  Personally, I would just leave them, but Bill and Stybba have a sense of duty—what would the Men do without them?

Cathelm: Yeah, I've never seen a story like this either, but in a section this big one must assume that most ideas have been done before.  I do have a few different ones I'm hoping are original, though...Thanks!

A: Thanks!  What would I do without you to review my new stories and make me happy?  I finally updated one, so there!

Meir Brin: Thanks so much for reviewing!  I'm greatly enjoying "Hogwarts Fanfiction Academy" and "Master Suelove" and it was a very pleasant surprise to get a review from you.  Yes, my notes are much too long.  I've thought of just having a separate chapter for them every three chapters or so like some people do, but that would take all the fun out of commenting on the plot.

Yilantri: I'm glad you like this—I love "A Loss of Authority".  Would you really recruit people to read this?  For me?  *puppy dog face*  Thank you thank you thank you...

Marooned

Damrod opened his eyes and groaned.  He must have imagined what had just happened.  That was it—he had been dreaming!  After all, Mablung would never crash the cart into the side of a house in real life...would he?

Deciding he didn't like where this train of thought was going, Damrod groaned again for good measure and lay still for a moment.  Apparently he was all right apart from some large bruises and scratches and lasting psychological trauma, so he slowly got up and surveyed the wreckage of the cart with dismay.  Splintered beams, axles, and wagon wheels were strewn all over, making it hard to see anything else, but he thought he could make out the forms of Bill and Stybba, those long-suffering equines, under some nearby two-by-fours.

To his relief, Damrod saw as he got closer that both the ponies were breathing regularly, apparently unhurt for the most part.  With that worry off his mind, Damrod's thoughts turned to his companion, whom he had momentarily forgotten.  Where was Mablung?  Starting to feel a little frantic, he looked under every matchstick within twenty feet hoping to find his friend, but to no avail.  Mablung was simply nowhere to be found.

At last, he gave up in despair and sat down on the remains of a wheel, burying his face in his hands.  Sure, he had been annoyed with Mablung sometimes, even wanted to kill him, but this was different!  To think that he would never hear his annoying wisecracks again or suffer his pranks...

"Hey, Damrod!" called an amused-sounding voice.  Damrod jumped, then turned slowly to look back up the hill they had so disastrously descended a short time before.  "What's wrong?" asked Mablung, lounging on the only patch of grass that remained unmangled after their little mishap.  "Did you miss me?"

For a minute, Damrod didn't trust himself to speak.  He just stood and stared up at his friend, jaw working.  At last he got control of himself enough to say, "Mablung, if you ever make me think you're dead again, so help me I'll kill you."  Mablung grinned at him and made his way down to join him.

"Don't you think we ought to rescue Bill and Stybba now?" he asked, carefully changing the subject.  Damrod scowled at him for a few seconds longer, then nodded in agreement.  Together they pulled the wreckage of the cart off the ponies, who seemed perfectly fine if a little annoyed by the episode.

Panting and puffing, the two sat down to rest at last.  Damrod occasionally shot dirty looks at Mablung, who ignored them and the fact that all of this was his fault.  In between glaring at his friend, Damrod was attempting to hatch a plot.  The plot involved alternately wondering how they would explain _this_ one back at headquarters if they made it that far, making plans to construct makeshift saddles and ride away as quickly as possible, and trying to remember all his training for surviving in the suburban wilderness.

Suddenly, Mablung poked Damrod in the shoulder.  "Hey, Damrod," he said.  "Would you look at that."  Damrod turned to look in the direction Mablung was facing.  His mouth dropped open in astonishment and horror at what he saw.

Sitting innocently in the midst of the devastation and ruin were the five bulging sacks of fanmail.

All was quiet for a moment as they both stared at the sacks with a mixture of surprise and horror.  Then Damrod sighed, an explosive sigh that took the place of many words he would have liked to say but knew he should not.  "I do not believe this," he said through clenched teeth.  "I absolutely do not believe this."  Mablung nodded in agreement with the sentiment but said nothing, perhaps fearing to bring the wrath of Damrod down on himself for the second time in ten minutes.  All in all, he felt he had taken quite enough risks for one day...

Slowly, Damrod picked his way through the pieces of their cart to the bags of letters.  His jaw set, he simply stood over them for a few seconds, shaking his head slightly.  The fanmail sat impassively, apparently untouched by the force of his hatred.  Eventually, Mablung came to stand beside his friend and put a consoling hand on his shoulder.  Damrod shrugged it off irritably.

"This—"  His voice cracked slightly, and he swallowed.  "This..._fanmail_..."  He spat out the word as though it were the foulest of curses and shuddered.  "It's evil!"

"Oh, come on," Mablung scoffed, but Damrod wasn't listening.  His grey eyes were still fixed unblinkingly on their erstwhile cargo, apparently trying to stare a hole through it.  It wasn't working.

"I'm dead serious, mate," he said without turning around to face Mablung.  "Think about it and you'll see.  Okay, first we were with Captain Faramir—"

"That's _Steward_ Faramir to you," interrupted Mablung with a satisfied nod, proud to have found a way to get a word in edgewise.  Damrod continued without deigning to acknowledge his comment.

"First we were with Faramir and everything was okay, right?"  Mablung opened his mouth and Damrod turned on him fiercely.  "Don't you dare interrupt!  But then we got stuck with this job."  He kicked the mailbags hard, and Mablung hid a grin.  Yes, Damrod was in fine form today!

"So," Damrod went on grimly, now pointing at the sacks angrily, "we start this ridiculous fanmail delivery route and look what happens!  We've had nothing but bad luck since.  I mean, first actually running into some girl putting her letter in the mailbox—"  Breaking off, he shuddered again at the memory of the encounter with the teenager who was firmly convinced that they were relatives of King Elessar and wanted to "go out" with one or both of them.  That had certainly been unfortunate...

Mablung nodded, reluctantly agreeing with him.  "And then this."  He elected not to mention that it was, in this case, not the fanmail that had brought misfortune upon them but his own reckless driving.  Somehow, he didn't think Damrod would be pleased by this observation.

A long and uncomfortable silence followed, in which Damrod glared battleaxes at everything within twenty feet and Mablung tried to avoid his gaze.  At last Mablung asked in a rather small voice, "What do we do now?  I mean, there's the cart..."  He gestured around them with a sweeping gesture.  "And here we are.  And, you know, I have a feeling that they're expecting that mail back at headquarters."

"Of course they are, you idiot!" Damrod snapped to cover the fact that he didn't have the least idea what to do either.  _"They_ don't care that we're hungry and tired and cold and miserable and borderline psychotic—"

"Speak for yourself," Mablung muttered, but he didn't dare say anything aloud.  If Damrod needed counseling, that was his problem, not Mablung's.  Although, technically, it might be very much Mablung's problem if Damrod plunged over the edge and into sheer madness...

"Noooo," Damrod continued.  "No, all _they_ want to know is if we get the fanmail in on time.  'Oh, Damrod, could you speed up the delivery a bit next time?  Gaurwen writes to dear Legolas _every week_ and, you know, he _so_ hates getting behind on his correspondence...' " he mimicked in a high voice, no doubt trying to imitate Éomer, who was their supervisor and very picky about details.  Mablung stifled a snort of laughter and shook his head, thinking that Damrod really needed a vacation if he was bored enough to do impersonations of Éomer.

Damrod sighed and glanced around him as if truly realizing for the first time that they were stuck in twenty-first century America without their only means of transportation.  "Well," he said more calmly.  "I guess we camp for the night."

"We _what?"_ Mablung demanded.  _"We_ camp?  No, my friend, you've got it all wrong.  You see, I don't _camp._  I drive the cart.  Or drove," he amended.  _"You_ take care of the dirty work like food and firewood and everything.  I'll watch the ponies and you can build us a shelter or lean-to or whatever your heart desires."  

Folding his arms, he leaned against a tree and waited to see whether Damrod would explode or take control of the situation and do all the work.  The good thing, he thought, about having a coworker like Damrod was that he would much rather do things himself to make sure they were done right than leave it to "some idiot like Mablung," as he referred to him at least once a week.

"Fine," Damrod replied, turning his back on Mablung and starting to explore the wreckage.  "I'll camp and you can sleep right there and keep an eye out for the coyotes."

Mablung blinked.  "The _what?"_  The downside to knowing less about modern-day culture than Damrod was that he could never be sure whether he was joking or not.  "What are...coyotes?"

Damrod shrugged.  "Oh, nothing much.  I expect you're too tough and stringy for them—they'll probably leave you mostly intact.  Maybe a chewed arm or leg, but don't worry, they only attack when their territory is invaded."  Mablung swallowed.

"Is this...is this coyote territory?" he asked, fearing the answer.  He had a nasty suspicion that Damrod was about to tell him something he really didn't want to hear—something like—

"Of course," Damrod said seriously, cocking his head a little disapprovingly at Mablung.  "Haven't you been listening?  If I mention coyotes, don't you think there's a good reason for it?"  Normally, Mablung would have made merciless fun of Damrod for being so sure of himself, but at the moment he was none too sure of anything.

"Yes, Damrod.  Of course I was listening.  But what exactly _are_ coyotes?" he asked patiently, hoping for and dreading an answer.

Damrod thought about it for a while, looking meditatively into the sunset.  "Well," he said slowly, "d'you know what wargs look like?"

"Mmm-hm," Mablung replied shakily, hoping desperately that he didn't know where this was going.

Offhandedly, Damrod explained, "Well, coyotes are a bit like wargs only smarter.  And faster, too," he added as an afterthought.  "Much faster."

Mablung stared bleakly at him, then let out his breath in a long sigh.  "Well then," he murmured half to himself, wondering why he always got himself into situations like this.  Reaching for one of the larger bits of canvas that Damrod had managed to salvage from the wreckage, he sighed, "All right.  Guess I'd better get started pitching the tent, then?"

Damrod smiled.  The way it was going, he thought, this business might not turn out to be so bad after all...__

A/N: In honor of Meir Brin, this author's note is very short (for once).  See you next time on "Pony Express"!


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